


A Tale of Treachery and Trust

by erinacea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Dark, Drama, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-16 16:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20865767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinacea/pseuds/erinacea
Summary: When Hastur confronts Crowley with the fact that he knows about his frequent interactions with Aziraphale, Crowley scrambles to come up with a convincing cover story.





	A Tale of Treachery and Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This fic plays at some unspecified time before Crowley and Aziraphale's collaboration is discovered. It's AU in that this is about to change.
> 
> It contains **non-consensual kissing and groping**, as well as bodily harm to the perpetrator.
> 
> Buckle up, please. Like any dark ride, things have to get worse before they get better, but I promise there's light at the end of the tunnel.

When Crowley pulls up outside the book shop, he immediately notices the prominent sign on the door declaring it closed. This, in itself, is not unusual. Since Aziraphale doesn't like customers making away with what he considers 'his' books and doesn't really need the money, either, he prefers to keep the shop closed more often than not. However, the dark windows signal that the angel _really_ isn't in.

Crowley scowls. They haven't exactly made plans, but he'd been hoping for a relaxed evening consisting of drinking fine wine and talking about everything and nothing. Aziraphale's shop is usually well-stocked with the former, and they somehow never lack topics for the latter.

He impatiently drums his fingers on the steering wheel and is still weighing the benefits of either waiting for the angel or finding an alternative way of spending the evening, when a voice from the passenger seat interrupts his thoughts. “Hello, Crowley...”

Crowley flinches. This is so not the voice he's been waiting to hear.

When he turns his head, his fellow demon Hastur is looking at him with a shark-toothed grin that promises big trouble. Hastur's lips curl as he glances past him out of the window. “So this is where he lives... your _angel_?”

Crowley stares at him, carefully keeping his face blank, as he struggles to stave off the terror rising up from deep within. _Fuck!_ He forces himself to take slow, even breaths. After all, he can't afford to panic now. This is a disaster in the making, but he absolutely has to keep a clear head. Unfortunately, as much as he'd like to, he can't simply _kill_ Hastur. Well, he probably _could_, but that would just Discorporate him and then all Hell would break lose.

Hastur keeps his inky eyes trained on Crowley's face. “Yes...” He smirks. “I know all about you two. Why don't you _explain_ yourself, Crowley? To me - or the big boss?”

Crowley swallows. “Um, it's not what it looks like.” It's a cliché reply and about as weak as it could get, but right now all he needs is to buy himself time while his mind is rattling on at breakneck speed. Unfortunately, he can't step out of time without taking Hastur along, and his mind tricks don't work on other demons, either. Overall, that means that _any_ sort of demonic power is right out, so he'll have to rely on his wits instead. It takes every ounce of will power not to let his inner turmoil show on his face.

Meanwhile, Hastur is laying into him with every sign of enjoyment. “Are you saying you _haven't_ been meeting with an angel? That you're not on... friendly terms with him?” His face contorts into an ugly grimace, and he spits a clot of phlegm at the Bentley's carpet.

Crowley cringes in disgust, but he swallows a snide reply and instead focuses on ticking off options in his head. His one advantage is that Hastur isn't very bright, even by demonic standards. Plus, he's almost certain that Hastur hasn't told anyone yet. Otherwise, they wouldn't be having this conversation, and Crowley would be facing a tribunal of Archdemons instead. That means that Hastur isn't entirely sure he caught Crowley doing something _forbidden_... And that gives Crowley an _idea - _an insane idea, sure, but it's the only one he has. Worse, he only has a single chance to get it right.

He takes a deep breath and finally responds. “Meeting? Yes. _Friendly? _Not so much.” He forces himself to grin lazily.

Hastur furrows his brows. “I've seen you. Talking. Drinking together. If you're planning to _kill_ him, why don't you do it already?”

Crowley winces, but quickly turns this involuntary reaction into a casual roll of the shoulders. “Not killing, no.” His lips curl. “That would be a complete _waste_.” Well, _that_ part is true, at least. Crowley grimaces. Thinking of Aziraphale - gentle, trusting, compassionate Aziraphale – being _killed_, that... it just doesn't bear thinking about.

“Huh? Why?” Uncertainty is chipping away at Hastur's grin.

Crowley smirks in a way carefully designed to give off airs of superiority. “It... amuses me to keep the angel around,” he explains. “He's quite... _infatuated_ with me, you know.”

Bile is rising up in his throat. If Aziraphale could hear him right now... But that's exactly the point: he has to protect _both_ of them. If Hell – or Heaven, for that matter - ever found out about their Arrangement, they would _both_ be screwed.

By now, Hastur's grin has faded entirely. He appears to be deep in thought, a look that doesn't suit him at all. “So what? What do you mean?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, not even bothering to hide his disdain. “Carnal pleasures, Hastur. You've heard of them?”

The other demon blinks, nonplussed. “What? You _fucking_ him?”

Another eye roll. “_Yesss_...” Crowley has slipped into hissing by accident, but then decides to keep going because he knows it tends to creep people out, although the effect is probably not nearly as pronounced when used on another demon.

Hastur chuckles appreciatively, and it quickly deteriorates into a wild cackle.

Crowley presses his lips into a thin line. He refuses to laugh along with him, though he allows himself to exhale in relief. Clearly, Hastur has swallowed the story, unbelievable as it might be. After all, it sounds sufficiently depraved to appeal to him, and in Crowley's opinion, it always pays to cater the tale to the audience. He catches himself absentmindedly scanning the street for signs of Aziraphale, who's still nowhere to be seen. Now that he thinks of it, it's actually lucky, possibly even a _blessing_, that the angel isn't home yet.

As soon as Hastur has stopped laughing, Crowley rounds on him with narrowed eyes. “Now don't you try _anything_, Hastur. This only works because he thinks I... _fancy_ him.” His lips curl in habitual distaste as he says the word, but it still feels like he's betraying the angel.

Hastur grins conspiratorially. “He any good?”

Crowley sneers. “Obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn't keep on doing it.”

“Doing _him_.” Hastur snickers.

Crowley responds with a forced smile. “Indeed.”

When Hastur appears lost in thought again, Crowley decides to forestall any ideas the other demon might be entertaining. “He's mine, you understand?! _Mine!_” After all, possessiveness is an acceptable quality for a demon to have.

By now, Crowley is feeling quite pleased with himself. Hastur has easily bought his lie, so all that remains to do is shake him off. That should be easy, though, considering that he knows exactly how much Hastur hates sitting in a car even when it's _parked_. Grinning, Crowley snaps his fingers to start up the Bentley. When he glances sideways, he's gratified to see Hastur jerk as soon as the engine rumbles to life. He smirks at the other demon. “Unfortunately, he's not here right now, so if you could just-”

Hastur grins nastily. “Oh, but he _is_!”

Crowley follows his gaze and feels his heart sink. There he is, indeed. _Shit. _ He briefly closes his eyes, but when he opens them again, Aziraphale is still strolling up the street, idly looking at shop windows and passers-by. Crowley suppresses a sigh. As if he needs _another_ reason to hate Hastur. Seeing Aziraphale should be a joyous occasion, not one accompanied by a feeling of dread. The only good thing is that the angel clearly hasn't noticed the Bentley yet.

“Uh, I've changed my mind,” Crowley says with affected nonchalance. “I hope you take offence, Hastur, because your sight would make _anyone_ lose their appetite.”

This time, Hastur doesn't rise to the bait. “Not getting cold feet, are you?” he asks with a calculating look on his face.

Crowley groans inwardly. _Fuck. _This means he has to go out there and warn Aziraphale, while also convincing Hastur he hasn't just fed him the mother of all lies. Defeated, he throttles the engine again. “Get lost, will you?!” he growls. “I don't want my car defiled any more than necessary.” However, he's merely going through the motions. For a change, the Bentley's condition is not at the forefront of his mind. There's simply too much at stake.

By the time Crowley slams the Bentley's door shut, Aziraphale has almost reached the shop entrance. The angel's eyes light up when he catches sight of Crowley, and his face breaks into a wide smile. “Crowley, dear boy! Have you been waiting long?”

Crowley doesn't reply. His heart is hammering somewhere in his throat, and he's too busy trying to gather his nerves for what he's about to do.

Oblivious, Aziraphale babbles on, “I'm sorry. I just-” When he finally notices that something is amiss, his smile fades and his forehead crinkles into a frown. “What's wrong, dear?”

Swallowing hard, Crowley decides that he needs to act _now_ before the angel says anything that might give away the game – and, to be honest, before he loses his nerves again – and with two long strides he reaches Aziraphale, who blinks in surprise at his sudden proximity. Then Crowley grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him, harshly, on the lips.

Aziraphale's initial reaction is to stiffen, and his eyes snap wide open. Then, gradually, he allows his eyes to flutter shut again and melts into the kiss. He tentatively wraps one arm around Crowley's waist, and then, more confidently, he places his other hand behind Crowley's head to entangle with his hair.

Rather than forbidden or embarrassing, as Crowley had expected, this embrace feels entirely natural... even nice. He finds himself easily leaning into it, and a moan wrests itself free from the depths of his throat. Has he been missing out on this for _six thousand years_?! He's tried kissing before - even intercourse - but quickly got bored of either. Yet somehow, _this_ is different.

Someone shouts, “Hey!”, and jostles him because they're still blocking the pavement, but Crowley doesn't pay it any heed. He can hear someone giggle, but he ignores that, too. Right now, he's entirely focused on Aziraphale. He lets his hands wander behind the angel's shoulders, pressing the tips of his fingers into the roots of Aziraphale's wings, that he knows from experience are particularly sensitive. As hoped, this elicits a surprised gasp from the angel that quickly turns into a mewling moan.

Eventually, Crowley realizes he can feel pinpricks gouging themselves into his back. He had no idea that was a real thing, but apparently, Hastur is still watching them and not at all liking what he's seeing. This kiss probably looks much too loving to lend _any_ credence to Crowley's fabricated story. _Fuck. _He needs to get them inside _now_, preferably without letting on that anything is wrong. This is not the right time or place for questions.

They're already standing quite close to the entrance doors to the book shop, so all it takes is some minute manoeuvring and a demonic finger snap. As soon as the doors fly open, Crowley gives Aziraphale a push to get him to stumble inside, then follows him at a more graceful walk.

“Crowley!” the angel protests. “What on Earth was that for?”

Another finger snap lets the doors fall shut and lock themselves behind them. Crowley slumps against the doors in relief. Yet when he turns to face the puzzled angel, he realizes with a start that – _Damn it! _\- as usually, he's parked the Bentley right outside the shop window, no-stopping zone be damned. While he can't actually see the front seats from his place by the door, Hastur probably has a clear view of _Aziraphale_ right now, who's wearing a look of confusion a few feet further into the room. Out of sheer frustration, Crowley balls his hands into fists.

“Crowley?”

Unfortunately, lowering the blinds would only signal that he's trying to hide something, and while leaving the lights off would be easier to explain, that won't help at all as Hastur's night vision is probably even better than his own. _Fuck!_ Crowley rakes a hand through his hair. He'd been planning to apologize and explain, but now it looks like that'll have to wait some more. Glancing around the shop, his eyes fall on a nearby shelf stacked high with books that cuts the room in half and, most importantly, is parallel to the window. _Perfect._ There's no way anyone watching from the street could see what's taking place in the aisle on its other side.

“Crowley, what's going on?!”

His plan firmly in mind, Crowley launches himself at the angel once more, but Aziraphale is more cautious now. When Crowley kisses him again, this time, the angel pulls back and grits his teeth, while simultaneously attempting to push him away. However, Crowley is physically stronger and manages to direct the angel firmly in the intended direction. “Look, angel,” he grits out. “Play along, _please_... I'll explain later.” He tries to convey through his eyes that he doesn't intend any harm, even though it's dark, and his sun glasses are in the way, and snakes' eyes are not designed to be particularly reassuring, anyway.

Aziraphale either hasn't heard him or for the moment has stopped believing his assurances. “Stop that,” he snaps and wriggles away when Crowley tries to recreate their earlier embrace by reaching for those sensitive spots under the angel's wings. It's finally starting to dawn on Crowley that in protecting what he holds dear, he may very well end up losing him.

Another brief glance out of the window confirms that, yes, Hastur is indeed leaning over to the driver's seat and watching their every move with narrowed eyes. Crowley mentally curses the other demon and, in his mind, promises him a slow, painful death. For now, though, their accursed audience means that he'll have to step up the show. For one brief moment, Crowley allows himself to close his eyes and work his jaw in frustration.

Aziraphale uses Crowley's distraction to jerk his arms backwards in an attempt to break free. Crowley grunts, but rather than let go, he tightens his hold. “Sorry,” he murmurs into Aziraphale's ear as he lowers a hand to grab the angel's bottom. Aziraphale gives a startled squeak and, again, tries to wriggle out of the way. For a moment, his pelvis grinds into Crowley's, and Crowley stops breathing. There's a pleasant tingle in his groin, but this is not how it should be happening. All of this is _wrong_. “I'm sorry,” he whispers and angles his hips away, but he doesn't dare to release the embrace.

Aziraphale is now staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. “What the _Hell_, Crowley?” he gasps, while once again fruitlessly trying to wrench himself free.

He must be truly perturbed to start swearing, and Crowley is now almost convinced that after all the stupid stunts he's pulled over the centuries, this will be the one their friendship may not recover from. Belatedly, he realizes that he should have started with _explaining_ during that short moment of respite, as soon as they were safely inside. Now, with Hastur still watching, it's too late. All he can do _now_ is bring this to an end, explain himself - and walk out of the angel's life forever. However, Crowley is not at all ready to give up yet, so he makes another desperate attempt to reassure the angel. “Please _trust_ me, angel,” he begs between placing unwanted kisses on Aziraphale's neck, and it's a testament to his own agitation that he can't keep himself from hissing the sibilants.

At long last, they reach the aisle he's been aiming for. Since the shop's lamps and candles are still unlit and the looming bookshelf is blocking any light falling through the windows, the aisle behind it is shrouded in darkness. Under the circumstances, it feels especially gloomy, even spooky. Naturally, this doesn't bother Crowley at all, but when he shoves Aziraphale inside, the angel finally snaps.

With a whooshing sound, Aziraphale's wings unfold behind him, while at the same time, his hands and eyes start glowing with pure white light. “Stop right there, _demon_!” he snarls, and Crowley's eyes pop open in alarm. Aziraphale raises his right hand, and Crowley instinctively recoils, but he's much too close and there's no time to react. When the angel's hand connects, Crowley's left cheek erupts in searing pain, and it's like molten sulphur all over again...

The pain is so sudden that all air is expelled from his lungs in a single drawn-out grunt that doesn't leave any room for shouting or even swearing out loud. Crowley staggers backwards and collides with the shelf. Through the blinding haze of agony, he hears and feels books tumbling to the ground all around him, but it barely registers until one of them hits him sharply in the back of the head. He tries to straighten himself up, but, having momentarily lost all sense of direction, ends up swaying instead and, eventually, collapses to his knees, where he draws deep, gasping breaths.

When he finally finds his voice again, it's to express his pain in a prolonged hiss. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck... _Cautiously, he raises a trembling hand to his cheek, but that turns out to be a mistake. At the slightest touch, angry blisters explode into white hot pain, and he has to bite his other hand to keep from howling out. _Fucking Hell! _

Leaning on his thighs, he forces himself to take slow, steadying breaths, to focus on something other than the pain. However, the only distraction that comes to mind is Aziraphale attacking him, which doesn't make him feel any better. “Holy fucking fuck,” he groans. As a demon, Crowley has had to develop a large amount of resilience, but nothing could have prepared him for being burnt by holy fire. In desperation, he pours all his power into suppressing the pain until, after what feels like ages, it subsides to a more manageable level.

When he finally opens his eyes again, it's to see Aziraphale wear a fierce expression, a white glow surrounding him. The angel is breathing heavily and, completely counter to his normal rigid posture, towering over Crowley in something like a battle stance. His wings are spread wide and his hair and feathers are flapping in an invisible wind. Even amidst all his pain, Crowley can't help staring. Aziraphale looks like a veritable angel of vengeance, and it's the most beautiful sight Crowley has ever seen.

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “What are you playing at, _Crowley_?!” he growls. “If you're really Crowley at _all_...”

_What?!_ “Who else would I be, you idiot?” Crowley snarls.

“I don't know. Someone I thought I could _trust_?”

That accusation almost hurts worse than the burn on his cheek. Crowley opens his mouth to argue, only to realize that Aziraphale has every reason to mistrust him right now. _Hate_ him, even. He shuts his mouth again and swallows hard. When he wrenches his glasses off his face, a spasm of pain causes them to slip out of his hand and go flying into the darkness, where they clatter to the ground. “Does the '_Arrangement'_ mean anything to you?” he grits out between stabs of pain. “Paris, 1793? London, 1941?”

For one long moment, Aziraphale just stares at him, his shoulders and wings drooping. All of a sudden, the holy light winks out. Then, impossibly, his face crumples even more. It's almost like he'd _hoped_ that someone else has assaulted him under Crowley's guise.

Crowley's heart gives a painful squeeze. “Damn it, _I'm sorry_, angel,” he croaks. “I- _Please_ let me explain_..._”

The angel's haunted expression tears at Crowley's heart strings. All light extinguished, Aziraphale looks lost and forlorn. For a moment, it looks like he's about to shake his head. Then he closes his eyes and whispers, “Well?” This single word is enough for his voice to break.

Crowley takes a deep breath. “Um. A- another demon found out about us. He- he followed me and- and asked me to explain, and-” He nervously licks his lips and swallows. “And he was watching us, and I- I- I thought...” He trails off, his shoulders slumping. It had been an _asinine_ idea, one that has cost him his best – his _only_ friend.

Aziraphale frowns, but he's quicker on the uptake than Hastur had been. “You claimed we were _lovers_?!” he asks incredulously.

Crowley can hardly blame him. That sounds even less likely to placate any demonic suspicions than the real thing had been. “I said I was taking _advantage_ of you,” he whispers.

“Oh,” the angel says, and his eyes widen in sudden understanding. “Oh, _Crowley_...”

“I'm sorry,” Crowley hisses through another stab of pain. “I'm _sorry_, angel. I never meant...” He swallows. “Are you _alright_? I'm _sorry_!”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, as he miracles up a small bubble of light. “It's alright. I'm _okay_.” He conscientiously moves some of the fallen books out of the way, stacking them up into a neat little pile. Then he moves over to Crowley's side, sinks into a crouch beside him, and reaches out to touch Crowley's face. “Let me look at that, dear.”

Shaking his head, Crowley shrinks away. It's _not_ alright. How can it be alright? “I didn't think... I- I should have explained. I should have backed off. I'm really, truly sorry...”

Aziraphale lays a calming hand on his arm. “I know, dear. I _understand_.”

It's not enough. It can _never_ be enough. “Aziraphale, I'm _sorry_!” Crowley wails. Part of him yearns to bury his face in Aziraphale's shoulder, while the other half insists he has no right to be anywhere in the angel's vicinity.

“_Crowley!_” Aziraphale calls out. He waits for Crowley to cautiously lift his eyes, then continues in a softer voice, “I _forgive_ you.”

Crowley stares at him, hardly daring to breathe. Hope is fluttering its wings in his chest. “You- you _do_?”

“Of _course_ I do.” Aziraphale gazes down at him with a warm smile. Then he gently clasps Crowley's chin to take a closer look at his wound. He hisses in horrified sympathy. “Oh Lord, I'm so sorry!”

Grimacing, Crowley shakes his head again, not quite dislodging the angel's hand, and mutters, “It's nothing more than I _deserve_...”

“Nonsense!” the angel snaps, but there's an underlying gentleness to his voice now. “You never _meant_ to hurt me.”

“Well, no, but...” Crowley winces in pain.

Aziraphale looks at him with that same tender smile. “You were trying to _protect_ me. As _always_, you were trying to protect me.”

Crowley swallows. The angel's face is very close now, and inappropriately, memories of the kiss – that glorious first kiss, before it all went wrong – are welling up. He grimaces. “Not _just_ you,” he mutters ruefully, his uncharacteristic honesty driven by a desperate need to make it up to the angel.

Aziraphale sighs. “Both of us, then,” he amends in a voice that brooks no further argument. “Now let me try to heal this.” He cautiously reaches out towards Crowley's cheek. “Tell me if it hurts...”

His fingers gently touch the burn, so lightly they're almost hovering over it, but it still makes Crowley hiss in pain. He squeezes his eyes shut and digs the nails of his left hand into his thigh. His right hand flails wildly until another hand catches it and holds on tight. The angel's grasp offers comfort and security, and Crowley holds on to it as if to a lifeline.

Somehow, the angel manages to mend the damage and, little by little, the pain recedes. Cautiously, Crowley opens his eyes to watch him work. Aziraphale is hovering over him with a look of intense focus on his face. As he siphons the holy fire from the wound, a thin stream of _something_ casts an ethereal light on the angel's face and right hand. His wings are fanned out behind him, their pure white feathers almost gleaming in the dark.

“You're beautiful,” Crowley blurts out. Aziraphale's eyebrows shoot up, and belatedly, Crowley bites himself on the tongue. Heat rises into his face and makes his cheek throb painfully, but right now, it's almost a welcome distraction. As he squeezes his eyes shut again, he lets his pained hiss stretch out longer than strictly necessary to make it absolutely clear that this was the pain talking, and not him.

Crowley feels the air shift as Aziraphale leans back. When the angel's hold on his hand slackens, however, he stubbornly holds on. Aziraphale is probably staring at him, but Crowley refuses to open his eyes, and eventually, Aziraphale sighs and resumes his healing.

Finally, when even the dull tingle of pain has faded away, Aziraphale draws back and critically appraises his handiwork. His face has turned pink but, like Crowley, he pretends that nothing has happened. “I'm afraid that'll leave a mark...”

When he sees that the angel's wings are tucked away again, Crowley pulls a face. Then the angel's words register, and he lifts his free hand to cautiously touch his cheek. The skin is still sensitive and prickles at the slightest touch, but the former agony is gone. Most of his cheek feels smooth again, but at about ear height, his fingers encounter an uneven patch of craters and bumps. He groans, “Great. Now I have a matching set.”

Aziraphale quirks a smile. “I'm glad you're feeling better.” After a moment, though, his smile fades. “But it might be hard to explain.” He uncertainly bites his lips. “I'm sorry...”

Crowley waves his concerns away. “Nah, don't you worry. Most demons have markings that come and go. I can just say I've been feeling more demonic lately. They'll be pleased to hear that.” He smirks. “Besides, I'm sure I'm still _handsome_.”

A blush spreads over Aziraphale's features, and when Crowley's own voice echoes in his mind – _you're beautiful_ – warmth rushes into his face, too. He clears his throat. “I'm actually more worried about _Hastur_ \- that demon I mentioned...” Now that his powers are no longer tied up with containing the pain, he allows himself to scan the area. “He's gone now, but that's not saying much.” He sighs. “And even if _he_ bought this whole charade, what if he doesn't keep his mouth shut? What if someone else – someone less gullible - decides to check on us?”

Aziraphale shrugs helplessly, and Crowley realizes that they're still holding hands. Well, he's not going to be the first one to let go. He really doesn't want to think about _Hastur_ right now...

“We could run away,” Aziraphale suggests.

Crowley stares at him. “What, _together_?”

The angel smiles and gently squeezes his hand. “Of course _together_. What else would be the point?”

Crowley's mouth has gone dry. “You would leave the book shop behind? For _me_? After everything I've done?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I'm sure we'd find a way to take the most important books...”

“Going by your criteria, that's practically _all_ of them,” Crowley points out dryly. He waits for the angel to respond to the second part of his question, and when an answer fails to arrive, Crowley sighs. “There's one thing I still don't understand, angel. How can you so readily _forgive_ me? How do you know I wasn't _really_ trying to-” He swallows. “You know.”

The angel looks at him as if the answer was obvious. “I _trust_ you.”

“Yeah, I got that. _Why?_”

Aziraphale sighs. “Intent _matters_, Crowley.” He visibly swallows. “Yes, you- you frightened me, but...” He closes his eyes and sighs yet again. “But when I _attacked_ you, you didn't even _try_ to fight back. Not even to defend yourself.”

“Of _course_ not!” Crowley interjects hotly. “You were only protecting yourself, and I would _never-_” He breaks off because the angel is grinning at him with something approaching a smirk. “What?”

“Just listen to yourself, dear. _That's_ why.” Smiling, Aziraphale carefully lowers himself to the ground next to him. As he does, he shifts his hold on Crowley's hand but he doesn't let go.

Crowley quirks a lopsided grin. A nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach is finally quietening down, and he takes a relieved breath. Maybe it's because of their clasped hands, but Aziraphale is sitting right next to him now, his arm flush against Crowley's. It feels comfortable and, despite their earlier fight, _safe_.

After a while, he decides to raise another topic. “You know, I had no idea you could _do_ that.” He vaguely gestures to his scarred cheek.

They are sitting so closely together that he can _feel_ Aziraphale's shrug. “Me either. I suppose it's some kind of defence mechanism against the forces of Evil.”

“_Six_ _thousand_ _years_, and you never felt _threatened_ by me?” Crowley asks sceptically. “Not _once_ in six thousand years-” He swallows. “Until today?”

Aziraphale gives his head a minute shake and trustingly leans it against Crowley's shoulder, which is all the answer Crowley needs.

“Way to blow my track record,” Crowley groans and briefly closes his eyes. “I _did_ say I was sorry, did I?”

Aziraphale chuckles softly. “You may have, once or twice.”

Crowley hadn't expected to ever hear him laugh again, and his heart gives a little stutter. He nervously bites his lower lip, then carefully disentangles his right hand to wrap his arm around the angel's shoulders instead.

With a soft sigh, the angel settles into the hug. Then he deliberately clasps Crowley's left hand instead, and Crowley lets him toy with it for a while. At length, Aziraphale mumbles, “Crowley?”

Crowley feels the angel's breath ghost along his collar bone, and thoughts of the kiss rise to the surface of his mind again. But of course, he has no right whatsoever to bring that up. He swallows. “Hmm?”

“Um. Earlier... I mean, _before_...” The angel continues to fidget with their clasped fingers, and when Crowley glances at him, Aziraphale's face has flushed a bright red. “We, erm, we haven't really talked about it - or at all, really, but here we _are_, and- and I don't think I'm wrong to think...” The angel bites his lower lip. He probably has no idea how alluring that looks. Finally, he takes a deep breath. “Was it _all_ acting? When you kissed me, I mean?”

“Er.” Crowley licks his lips. Heat rises to his face again, which prompts his scar to pulse in a dull echo of the prior pain. Aziraphale is gazing at him with such hope, and they're already sitting in such intimate proximity, and, well, he _owes_ it to him, doesn't he? It all comes out in a rush. “Well, I, er, I wasn't planning anything, really. This was just the first thing I could think of, and- and it was only when we, erm... _kissed_ that I realized that- that maybe I had sort of been _hoping_...” He trails off. Even now, despite practically holding the angel in his arms, he's not entirely sure where they stand, and he's never been good at talking about his feelings in the first place.

Aziraphale glances up at him through bashfully lowered lashes, and Crowley's heart gives a wild pang of longing. “I _liked_ the kiss,” Aziraphale mumbles. It sounds like a heartfelt confession, and it might as well be.

Crowley finds his gaze drawn to the angel's lips and catches himself licking his own ones. “You- you _did_?” he asks in a daze.

Aziraphale smiles at him and flutters his lashes in a way that takes Crowley's breath away. Hell, when did the angel learn to _flirt_ like that? “Very much so,” Aziraphale whispers.

“Oh.” The angel is still gazing at him, and Crowley casts around for anything more substantial to say and finally lands on, “Yeah, me too.” He swallows. This, too, sounds like a confession he hadn't been planning to make, but it nonetheless rings true. When Aziraphale beams at him, he doesn't _want_ to take it back, either.

Slowly, the angel reaches up to place his hand at the base of Crowley's head. Aziraphale angles his face upwards, and Crowley readily responds to the gentle tug pulling him down. Their faces are now only inches apart, and for a moment, they gaze deeply into each other's eyes. Then Aziraphale whispers, “_May_ I, darling?”

_Darling!_ Crowley's heart skips a beat. “_Anything_, angel,” he finally breathes.

Heart hammering wildly, Crowley lets the angel take the lead, determined not to rush him ever again, so it's a pleasant surprise when after that first tender, probing brush of the lips, Aziraphale eagerly deepens their kiss and presses himself tightly against him. In response, Crowley wraps his arms firmly around the angel and pours all his unspoken feelings into returning the kiss. It feels completely different than their first kiss, somehow both less and more frightening, gentler and more passionate, and every bit as fulfilling.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment. You might also want to check out my other (Good Omens) stories, too. :)


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